


can't count the years on one hand

by agaunstnazguls



Series: snapshots of a life half lived [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, I know nothing about publishing, M/M, Mentions of B&E, grantaire fights a lot with eponine, it's all very soft i suppose, probably OOC do i give a shit? no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaunstnazguls/pseuds/agaunstnazguls
Summary: “I’m leaving,” Enjolras tells him, going to stand.“No!”//Nosey friends, discussions of first dates, B&E, and France.





	can't count the years on one hand

Grantaire wakes up at 3pm to a headache, an empty bed and a post it note attached to his forehead.

He stretches and reaches up with flimsy hands to read the note. A quick, blurry glance at the messy handwriting has him reaching for his glasses, and he curses ever making friends with kids who were taught that everything needs to be written in italics. He’s eternally thankful for his own bubble writing, as much as his teachers hated him for it in school. 

He gets as far as recognising the squiggly  _ good afternoon  _ before he’s putting down the note and stumbling to his bathroom. 

Turning the knob on the shower, it takes a few moments before it sputters to life. Undressing is easy, since he’s only in boxers and a single sock. He yelps when he steps under the cold spray, but perseveres, knowing it won’t get any better. He lives with three other people, and they always seem to have visitors, so having warm showers with his sleeping schedule is nigh impossible. 

By the time he’s towelling his hair off, wearing a pair of boxers that may not be his and a hoodie that  _ definitely  _ isn’t his, Grantaire’s body isn’t as stiff. His headache lingers, though, and when he steps out of his room, he winces at the cheers that greet him.

“Why,” he says, slinking into the kitchen. He pulls out two pieces of bread and then immediately tosses them back into the packet, before picking up what’s left of the loaf and throwing it in the bin. Right. It was his day to go food shopping. Fuck. 

Foregoing the mouldy bread, he pours himself a bowl of Frosties. A look in the fridge reveals there’s no milk, and there are no spoons in the drawer, either. 

“Fuck,” he says aloud.

“Sorry, I have the spoons,” Jehan says from the sofa. 

Grantaire picks up his bowl and goes to join the small gathering.

Jehan is cross legged on one sofa, all of the spoons upright on the coffee table in front of them. Eponine is curled up on the loveseat with Cosette, watching  _ Cake Boss  _ on TV, and Joly is sitting on the floor in front of the only empty space. 

It’s definitely one of Joly’s shift days, but judging by all the pillows propping him up, and how he’s smothered in quilted throws, he guesses it’s a bad day. 

Grantaire carefully removes a spoon from the procession and taps Joly on the head with it. “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks.

“We have guests,” Joly says. He leans forward so Grantaire can sit down, and then settles against his legs, wincing as he adjusts amongst the pillows. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” he says, because he knows there’s no point in saying otherwise. It offends Joly if anyone suggests he’s not alright, even when they all know it isn’t. It’s a pride thing that Grantaire completely understands, and it’s not like Joly hasn’t been living with it his whole life. Grantaire is in no place to assume he knows what’s best for his friend when he can’t even look after himself. 

“How was your date?” 

“Not a date,” Grantaire says immediately. He ignores Eponine’s eye roll in favour of scooping up his dry cereal. 

“How was the gallery, then?” Jehan clarifies.

“Fun, I guess,” he says. “He’s never been before, which is a travesty, you know, he’s lived in central London his entire life, so we took it slow.” Eponine snorts. Cosette taps her stomach. “Shut up, Eponine. Anyway, yeah, it probably took us about three hours to get round. We were going to go to an Italian place around the corner, but it was packed, so we ended up in  _ Five Guys. _ ”

There’s a lot he leaves out. The way Enjolras had looked, in a baby pink hoodie with little cherubs on the front, in his glasses instead of contacts. How Enjolras loved Room 33, for a reason he couldn’t specify, kept calling it ‘the one with all them French bitches’ before despairing over being a terrible feminist. The joy on his face when he saw the van Gogh-- the room they had spent the most time in-- and how he had smiled when Grantaire surprised him, in  _ Five Guys _ , with a book full of his art and history. 

And he definitely leaves out how they accidentally held hands half an hour in and never let go, not really.

“Romance is truly dead,” Eponine says dryly. Jehan picks up a spoon and throws it at her, frown marring their usually cheerful face.

“It  _ is  _ romantic, Eponine,” they say. “In all senses. Remember when Montparnasse broke into that funeral parlour for me so I could authentically capture it for that short story I was writing?” They say this wistfully, a far away look on their face, and Grantaire does the smart thing by glossing over that. 

“It doesn’t need to be romantic, guys,” Grantaire states, “because it  _ wasn’t a date.  _ And, Ep, you’re one of the most unromantic people in the world. You can’t judge anybody else. _ ” _

Eponine, however, is too full of spite and hatred for Grantaire’s wellbeing to acknowledge this.“Two bros, walking around a gallery for three hours.”

“Five feet apart because they’re not gay,” Cosette finishes for her girlfriend. “Don’t worry, ‘taire, whatever you want to call it. No pressure.”

“None of you even live here,” Grantaire says. “Literally none of you. Except for Joly.”

“Speaking of living here,” Joly begins, shifting. He winces, but doesn’t stop until his chin is digging into Grantaire’s knee. He’s truly trapped, now. Even Jehan is leaning closer, a giddy expression on their face, as if they know  _ exactly  _ what’s about to happen. “We saw something very exciting in this flat at 8am.”

Grantaire thinks. “The second coming?”

Joly hums. “No, unfortunately. A little birdy leaving your room to go to work. At  _ 6am. _ ”

“Oh, no,” Grantaire says. “You really fucked up that phrase.”

Joly, very much used to Grantaire’s weak attempts at deflection, ignores this. “He was wearing a very familiar hoodie, Grantaire. Smelled very familiar too.”

Eponine makes a noise at that. “How close were you standing that you could smell him?”

“I poured some coffee out for him before he left,” Jehan says. “Distinct apple scent that is also currently emanating from Grantaire. I told the others when they woke up.”

Grantaire looks at Jehan, and, yeah, their clothes look different from their usual style. Less frills and beads and random bee accessories, and a lot more grey.

“I had an argument with Montparnasse about the wallpaper so I told him I would be sleeping elsewhere for a few nights,” Jehan explains. “I was writing poetry in the early hours. It’s a lifestyle.”

Montparnasse, with his piercings and suits and criminal record, is the last person any of them expected Jehan to hit it off with. Most of them had been worried, at first, that Montparnasse would end up in a ditch somewhere, having broken Jehan’s heart. Their previous boyfriend ended up in around the same state. But it’s been three years, the two now in possession of an actual  _ house  _ somehow, and none of them can imagine any other way of living for the two. 

“Aw, shit, that sucks,” Grantaire says, patting their arm. His frosties are all gone now, and he’s not really in control of the rest of his body to stop him from doing this, but Jehan still looks happy.

“It’s okay, we made up, I just think the paint fumes are getting to me,” they say. “We were very mature about the whole thing.”

“Where did you sleep?”

Jehan stares at him, and Grantaire is surprised at the sudden flush of their cheeks. “Um. Sofa.”

Ah, shit.

Grantaire feels very much like a fish as his mouth opens and closes. Eponine has lost interest, going back to playing with Cosette’s rings, and the other two are watching  _ Cake Boss  _ again, transfixed. 

Grantaire may be actively frustrated by most of his friend’s behaviour, but their ability to lose interest in anything that deviates from their own gossip when the most interesting part of the conversation happens is something he will never resent. Especially considering most of that gossip has involved him and Enjolras over the years. 

Jehan winks at him, a nervous habit. 

“It’s cool, don’t worry. That secret is one the three of us will share.” Jehan pats his hand in assurance. “It was cute.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Grantaire swallows. “But seriously-”

“It’s okay, ‘taire,” they say. “Honestly. You two are too sweet, I would never break your trust like that.”

They both start watching TV when Joly yelps. A cake has fallen and everyone is dealing with the fallout, and it’s better for Grantaire to focus on someone else’s chaos than to focus on that of his own heart.

He considers texting Enjolras more than once, but every time the thought fills him with panic. What if the previous day had been a mistake? A fluke of confessed feelings, spurred on by Grantaire’s clinginess the whole day? Clinginess the whole time they’ve been friends, really, and that thought leads him into wanting to re-read all of the messages they’ve ever sent each other to pick apart all the times he’s gone wrong. 

The doorbell rings. Joly taps him.

“That’s the Tesco man with our food,” he says. It’s not accusing, but Grantaire still pulls what he hopes is an apologetic look, and bounds over the back of the sofa to go and answer the door. 

Yes, he’s in his boxers, but he’s answered the door in worse.

Unluckily, it’s not the Tesco delivery guy. 

“Hey,” Enjolras says, shuffling through the doorway. He’s still in his glasses and he’s barefaced, since he hadn’t left any of his usual makeup at Grantaire’s. He hangs up his jacket-  _ Grantaire’s jacket-  _ on the coat rack, and Grantaire realises that it’s his hoodie Enjolras is wearing. It’s green, covered in dry paint and random splashes of glitter. It’s old and tattered and his favourite item of clothing, and now he can never wear it again.

“Oh, hello.” Grantaire sounds stitled, even to his own ears, but Enjolras doesn’t hear it. Instead he leans forward and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, ignoring the stubble there. It’s… nice. People don’t usually kiss his cheek.

There’s a gasp from behind them. 

“You didn’t text. I left a message.” He pouts as he says it.  _ Enjolras is pouting. Why is that cute? He’s a grown man, he can’t be cute.  _

Grantaire constantly feels like Enjolras only acts this way around him so no one will ever believe him when he insists that  _ yes, Enjolras DOES sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen in the car. I know it seems unlikely, but he admitted she’s his favourite singer. He knows all the words to Call Me Maybe. Stop saying I’m a liar!  _

“Yes, the post-it. It’s on my bedside cabinet. Sorry. How was work? I have to tell you something.”

It’s all a lot, and Enjolras looks desperately confused.

A knock at the door. Enjolras pulls it open, and the Tesco delivery guy is there.

“I’ve got your shopping by the lift,” he greets.

Enjolras grabs the shopping bags off one of the hooks. Musichetta must have left them there that morning. “I’ll run down and bring it all up.”

And then he’s gone, delivery man in tow, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Make sure you don’t swoon,” Eponine calls. He picks up a pen and throws it at her head, missing and hitting the TV stand instead.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he snaps back, halfhearted. “How old are you, five?”

“I’m twenty one,” she says, offense in her tone. Grantaire smiles grimly: success. “Don’t look so smug, you’re the one being provoked by someone half your age.”

“It’s  _ seven years _ \--”

Enjolras shoulders his way through the door, cutting Grantaire off. He’s carrying six full bags of groceries, including one between his teeth. 

“How are you carrying so much?” he asks. “And how are you that quick?”

Enjolras keeps walking to the kitchen, where he carefully places the bag on the counter. “I’ve been carrying  _ Les Amis  _ for six years and Courfeyrac for twenty,” Enjolras says easily. “It’s only by the sheer strength of my soul and my aversion to failure that I’m still going.”

“I can respect that.”

Eponine deigns to get up off of the sofa to come over and help them pack away the food, although she complains the entire time about being too far apart from a giggling Cosette. 

Jehan’s phone rings, and they leave the room to take the call. The happy expression means it’s probably Montparnasse. Eponine drags Cosette to the other sofa to begin running a hand through Joly’s hair, who has fallen asleep, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to drag Enjolras-- and a very large backpack-- into his room. 

“I can’t stay long tonight, the wedding’s tomorrow,” Enjolras reminds him once the door is closed, as if Grantaire hasn’t endured the constant arrangements for months on end. He sits on the bed, against the headboard and unzips his bag, and begins pulling its contents out. It’s all books.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says, watching as Enjolras pulls out more books than Grantaire thought was physically possible to fit in such a contained space. 

“It’s a trainee editor thing, apparently,” Enjolras says. “They’ve handed off arcs to me to double check any glaring mistakes. They usually leave the job for actual third parties, but it’ll be a way to train in recognising errors.”

“How the fuck are you going to get through all of those?”

“I mean, they’ve given me two weeks, so it shouldn’t be too bad. If I don’t get to all of them they said it’s fine.” 

As Enjolras reads through blurbs, Grantaire lays next to him and sorts through various emails. He has several commission pieces due and has to go in and discuss the progress of his PhD with his supervisor, so he does some scheduling arrangements for that. 

The most recent email in his inbox is from the University, and by the time he gets to the end, his brain is on fire.

“I’m going to France.”

Enjolras looks up from the book in his hands. “What, now?”

Grantaire snorts. “No, next month. As part of my PhD research. Holy shit, it’s being funded by the University and everything-- look.”

He hands his laptop over to Enjolras, who reads through the email once, twice. When he looks back at Grantaire, his smile is blinding. 

“This is amazing! And you have an aunt in Paris, right?”

He nods. He can remember mentioning his aunt once, to Jehan, but Enjolras was clearly listening. “She’s travelling, so I could probably house sit. Fuck, this is so-- I didn’t think it would be approved this  _ quickly.” _

“You’re really talented, ‘taire, you deserve it,” Enjolras says, linking their hands. 

Grantaire looks down at the fingers, laced together. It fills his heart with dread, for a brief moment, what living apart might do. 

“Will we… be okay? If I go away?”

Enjolras huffs. “It’s a month, Grantaire, I’m sure we’ll survive. If you’re that desperate for my company I can come and visit, tickets aren’t overly expensive.”

“I know, and you don’t have to do that,” Grantaire says. “I just mean… this is very new. Literally three days. And--”

“And we’ve known each other for six years, Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts. He turns his body towards Grantaire, and he looks so earnest, so unlike the Enjolras who did nothing but sneer at him the first few years they knew each other. “I don’t want us to jump the gun before it’s gone off. Romance and sex is new, but the friendship we’ve built isn’t, and I’m not going to ruin that because you’re going on a research trip to France. For a  _ month. _ ”

They sit quietly, and Grantaire finds himself slowly slipping down the bed until he’s lying. Eventually Enjolras picks up a book and begins reading it, although his hand is still wrapped up tightly in Grantaire’s, who squeezes it intermittently. He hadn’t realised just how much of his time is spent around a quiet, thoughtful Enjolras, and he takes the time to appreciate the sight now he knows he’s allowed to. 

They had talked at the gallery about their relationship. No definitive words for it at this point, it was too soon, but they were both interested in one another. Enjolras had been interested for a while, since he was a first year, which was even longer than Grantaire, and that was enough to send Grantaire’s brain into overdrive. 

Enjolras, harboring a secret crush on  _ him?  _ With how aloof and strict he was, never dating, apparently Courfeyrac and Combeferre hadn’t even noticed until a year ago. Grantaire, with his cynicism and terrible eyesight, would never have realised if Enjolras hadn’t made the first move. He was hopeless. 

Eventually, Grantaire says, “Sorry about that. I don’t know why I’m panicking so much. I’m not even nervous about going over there, it’s… I dunno, being apart. I don’t want to fuck it up somehow. I’m terrible at texting, you know this.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “You won’t fuck it up, Grantaire. I won’t let you.” His face becomes solemn all of a sudden. “However, I’m sad to admit that I think I’m going to have to diagnose you with a case of insta-love.”

Grantaire finds himself smelling, in spite of himself. “Terrible.”

“Absolutely awful,” Enjolras agrees, “it impacts most terribly written teenagers in YA novels. How unfortunate.”

“But seriously.”

“Yeah. Honestly, I think we’ve just been at each other’s throats for so long that being apart is going to be a struggle. Who else will argue with me about the way I dot my I’s?” 

It sends a little thrill through Grantaire, hearing that. He’s so used to being alone that knowing Enjolras is also unbearably attached to him, after so many years, fills him with a certain kind of fondness. And he’s also noticed how much Grantaire hates his handwriting. He really  _ does  _ listen to Grantaire’s flirting-disguised-as-nitpicking. 

He’s not even going to begin questioning the reality of this situation. That Enjolras is holding his hand, in his bed, saying things in a mocking tone and none of it relating to a dare. Maybe it  _ is  _ a dare. But, then again, none of their friend’s are big enough assholes to punish him like that after knowing about his infatuation for so many years. 

“Your handwriting is disgusting, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He reaches over Enjolras to his other nightstand and grabs a hold of the post it note, waving it with a flourish. “Look at this. I started reading it and immediately gave up.”

“Oh, shut up,” he snaps, and pushes Grantaire back. Grantaire goes with the motion so he’s looking up at Enjolras as he speaks. “Look, fine, I’ll read it to you: ‘ _ Good afternoon, Grantaire. I had a lovely time yesterday. Please call me when you wake up. Enjolras.’  _ See?”

“Where the fuck is my name in that mess?” Grantaire pulls on the note to squint at it in the dim light. 

Enjolras points at the note. “There!” It’s gibberish. 

“That’s not my name! It looks like you’ve written garibaldi.”

“The Italian general?”

Oh, he’s so fond. “No, the biscuit.”

Enjolras frowns. “It does not look like garibaldi.”

“It really does. Your name looks like a half assed signature. And why did you write it so formally, as if we weren’t smooching last night?”

Enjolras’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “ _ Smooching?  _ What is this, Grease?”

“You’re cruising for a bruising,” he drawls.

Enjolras kisses him quick, but Grantaire doesn’t let him get far when he pulls away. He tugs on the strings of his hoodie, yanking him close and ignoring his indignant squeak in favour of pressing their lips together again. 

“Really, though,” Enjolras says, pulling away and putting a hand over Grantaire’s mouth. “I’m proud of you. I just wish you would put as much energy into supporting  _ Amis  _ as you do applying for grants.”

Grantaire lifts his chin so his mouth is no longer covered. “I came up with the group name, didn’t I? And I’m always correcting your arguments! That should definitely earn me some kind of participation award.

“I’m leaving,” Enjolras tells him, going to stand.

“No!” 

The sound of Enjolras’s laughter is enough to make his heart bloom. 

“But, really, I should go, Courfeyrac has been panic texting me about flowers since 1.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah, the wedding.”

*-*

By the time Enjolras is out the door with more kisses than anyone in the room is comfortable seeing from their usually stoic leader, and on the phone with a very worried Combeferre, Montparnasse and Grantaire’s other flatmates have arrived.

Montparnasse is sitting on the sofa with Jehan curled up on his lap, talking softly in his ear. He’s out of a suit and is wearing one of Jehan’s oversized t-shirts, and it’s so unbearably soft it makes Grantaire feel even worse about saying goodbye to Enjolras. 

He’s only slightly disgusted at himself for the thought. 

“Hello, my darling,” Musichetta greets when he sits next to her. Bossuet has taken Joly back to their shared room to rest in preparation for the long day tomorrow. She’s still in her waitressing uniform, but her hair’s down. Grantaire leans his head on her shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says.

Silence. Then: “Can you please have sex quieter next time?”

Grantaire hits her laughing face with a pillow and doesn’t feel bad about disrupting the quiet when Jehan and Montparnasse both cackle. 

*-*

**Enjolras**

Felt terrible leaving. The roommates were disgusting before Combeferre left for his hotel room. Both yelled at me for not coming home last night. Am I five?

**Me**

Your texting is adorable, so posh

Oh, don’t start

Musichetta heard us last night and wouldn’t stop cackling

A witch 

**Enjolras**

Fuck off

Oh well, it’s better than explaining it individually

I’m sure they’re waiting for post-wedding to explode in the groupchat

**Me**

You’ll have to deal with that then ^.^

**Enjolras**

no fuck you

_ [You have been added to groupchat ‘SMOKING KILLS’] _

**Me**

They’re still going on about that? At least I don’t drink!

**Enjolras**

God you’re such an idiot

See you tomorrow <3

**Me**

Gross

<3

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Still Into You' by Paramore
> 
> It's all unbearably soft and out of character and I don't give a shit. I know absolutely nothing about Publishing but isn't that just life? 
> 
> the_march_hair on Twitter did some art for the first fic in the series and!!!!! I LOVE IT!! https://twitter.com/the_march_hair/status/1177735721291075586
> 
> My Twitter is @agaunstnazguls hmu


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